Aug. 2, 2010 at 11:06am with 13 notes
NYCOhioWisconsin
I’m convinced that the majority of great people you find around this country somehow spent time in the Midwest. Born there, schooled there, whipped into shape there, who knows.  I was told by a good friend here in LA to check out a little spot in the West Village called Joseph Leonard. An unassuming place, like 90% of Manhattan restaurants, it was charming and warm inside. The staff was friendly and attentive, knowledgeable, convivial. I needed to find a guy named Brian.  He’s from Wisconsin, of course. Though his discourse on the menu is thorough, he raves about an item called the “Hashbrown.” An homage to an old steakhouse in Madison, it is a plate-sized hockey puck of fried, shredded potato with a generous dusting of sea salt. My friend and I dug in. He has inlaws in Wisconsin. Immediately, we were back in the Midwest. Stay there too long, we might start to resemble the “Hashbrown.” The following evening, I’m at a friend’s restaurant/lounge/nightclub in the Meatpacking. More than out-of-place in the environment, but loving the contradiction, I’m not surprised that when in line for the restroom—God knows what some of them are doing in there—the person to strike up a conversation is a girl from Ohio.  “How do you like it?” I ask. “Well, I’ve only been here a week,” she says. “That’s a big change.” “It sure is!” she giggles. I’m sure her night differed from mine. I spent the closing hours visiting another friend who mixes a mean cocktail in Soho. The girl from Ohio, who had only been in NYC a week, was surely in for a long ride. Hopefully at the end of it, she’s still the person to make small talk in a loud restaurant. There are too many people checking Blackberries, anyway.

I’m convinced that the majority of great people you find around this country somehow spent time in the Midwest. Born there, schooled there, whipped into shape there, who knows. 

I was told by a good friend here in LA to check out a little spot in the West Village called Joseph Leonard. An unassuming place, like 90% of Manhattan restaurants, it was charming and warm inside. The staff was friendly and attentive, knowledgeable, convivial. I needed to find a guy named Brian. 

He’s from Wisconsin, of course.

Though his discourse on the menu is thorough, he raves about an item called the “Hashbrown.” An homage to an old steakhouse in Madison, it is a plate-sized hockey puck of fried, shredded potato with a generous dusting of sea salt. My friend and I dug in. He has inlaws in Wisconsin. Immediately, we were back in the Midwest. Stay there too long, we might start to resemble the “Hashbrown.”

The following evening, I’m at a friend’s restaurant/lounge/nightclub in the Meatpacking. More than out-of-place in the environment, but loving the contradiction, I’m not surprised that when in line for the restroom—God knows what some of them are doing in there—the person to strike up a conversation is a girl from Ohio. 

“How do you like it?” I ask.

“Well, I’ve only been here a week,” she says.

“That’s a big change.”

“It sure is!” she giggles.

I’m sure her night differed from mine. I spent the closing hours visiting another friend who mixes a mean cocktail in Soho. The girl from Ohio, who had only been in NYC a week, was surely in for a long ride. Hopefully at the end of it, she’s still the person to make small talk in a loud restaurant. There are too many people checking Blackberries, anyway.

  1. lee-lee reblogged this from sixtyeightinches
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  4. mblevison reblogged this from sixtyeightinches and added:
    deep down i’m hoping...ohio and it’s my first week...city....
  5. sixtyeightinches posted this